


Trouble is What You Make It

by OzQueen



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Background Case, Common Cold, Fever, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:34:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25490200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OzQueen/pseuds/OzQueen
Summary: When Miss Fisher leaves the house in order to solve a case — against doctor's orders — Mac and Jack must join forces in order to find her.
Relationships: Elizabeth MacMillan & Jack Robinson, Phryne Fisher & Elizabeth MacMillan & Jack Robinson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 64





	Trouble is What You Make It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aronaut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aronaut/gifts).



> I have taken numerous liberties, most notably with the layout of Flinders Street Station. While there is certainly a ballroom upstairs, and it was in use in the 20s and 30s (though not always as a ballroom), I have no idea what the rest of the layout up there is like, so please forgive me for fudging it a little...
> 
> Also, bless @notatelescope on Twitter for encouraging this. It's not the Jack & Mac fic we discussed — that one is, perhaps, still to come — but it's _something_ and I'm very grateful to be back in the realm of writing things. ♥

* * *

"Thank you for coming," Dot said, looking relieved at the sight of Doctor MacMillan letting herself into the kitchen of 221B The Esplanade.

"Upstairs, is she?" Mac asked.

Dot nodded, touching a fleeting palm against a teapot. "I'm going to bring her some tea and toast, but if you'd like to go ahead—"

"Of course." Mac glanced at the tray, and gave Dot a kind look. "She's not lacking for love and care, anyway."

Dorothy blushed, but she looked quietly pleased.

Mac climbed the stairs, the gentle clink and rattle of glass bottles and pills in her medicine bag leaving no doubt as to who was approaching.

"Knock knock!" she called cheerfully, opening the door to Phryne's bedroom.

A cool breeze blew the curtains and rustled the colourful petals of the bouquet of garden flowers on the dressing table. The room was otherwise still, and very quiet.

"Miss Williams?" Mac called downstairs rather urgently. She heard the tea tray rattle as it was placed roughly on the kitchen table.

Dorothy's voice sounded from the bottom of the stairs. "Yes, Doctor?"

Mac waited until Dot made her flustered approach.

Mac gestured at the empty bed. "Where is my patient?"

Dot looked at the rumpled covers on the bed, and glanced around the room as though she might spot Phryne hiding somewhere. Her face fell, and she twisted her fingers in her apron anxiously. "Oh, dear," she said. "She must have gone out the window."

* * *

"What case is she working on?" Jack asked, swinging his hat from his fingertips, his coat still on his shoulders and flecked with spring rain.

Dot's eyes were wide and worried. "I don't know. None — I mean, I don't think she has any." She crumpled her apron in her hands again. "I can't think where she's gone." Her voice wavered.

Mac gently patted her back. "There there," she said bracingly. "She won't have gone far." She ignored the fact that an immediate search of the surrounding streets had showed no sign of Phryne. Returning to the house, she and Dot had called in reinforcements, and Jack had been first to arrive.

There were noises from the kitchen, and the door banged closed. Bert's voice rang through the house. "Got a fresh pot of tea, Dottie?"

Dot's hands flipped her apron down like a knight slamming his visor closed. She stormed into the kitchen. "Are you two involved in this?" she asked.

Mac and Jack exchanged a glance, mutually deciding to linger in the entrance hall a moment longer.

"Good morning to you too," Cec said, sounding affronted.

"Miss Fisher is _missing_!" Dot said dramatically. "Don't think for a minute I won't know you're lying if you try to tell me you had nothing to do with it—"

"We had nothing to bloody do with it!" Bert said, just as Cec crowed a surprised, "Missing?"

When Mac and Jack finally braved the kitchen, it was to find Dot's shoulders slumped in defeat, and Bert's eyes ablaze with indignation.

"Missing?" Cec asked again, looking at Jack.

"Via her bedroom window," Jack said. "Presumably of her own free will, Miss Fisher has absconded for reasons known only to herself."

"And she has a _temperature_ ," Dot said, "and she needs rest, and medicine, and…" She sniffled, and Cec drew her in under his arm and murmured comfortingly to her.

"Right." Bert puffed his cigarette and narrowed his eyes. "She won't have gotten far. We'll take the cab and track her down. Where's she run off to, Dot?"

"That is yet to be known," Jack said. "Are either of you aware of any cases Miss Fisher was working?"

"Nuh," Bert said, clamping his limps around his cigarette.

"Are you aware of her recent movements? Anyone she visited, or anyone asking to be brought here to see her?"

"There was that Mildred lady," Cec said suddenly.

"Mildred?" Mac looked to Dot for additional information.

Dot wiped her eyes on a neatly-folded handkerchief. "Mildred Harper — she came to talk about the opening of the Topaz Room on Saturday. She stopped by to deliver Miss Fisher's invitation personally." She patted the pockets of her apron helplessly. "I'm not sure where the invitation is."

"We picked her up from Parkville," Cec supplied.

Jack raised his eyebrows. "That's quite a cab fare."

"She could afford it," Bert muttered around his cigarette. "And then some." He exchanged a glance with Cec which indicated to Mac that, had it not been as a favour to Miss Fisher, Miss Harper's cab fare may have seen additional inflation.

"Right," Mac said, suddenly bristling with energy, "you two circle around in the cab. We went as far as Acland Street on foot, but if she's jumped on a tram —"

"Ha!" Bert scoffed.

" — she'll be too far ahead of us to catch up without proper transport. The Inspector and I will visit Miss Harper."

"Yes," Jack agreed, looking only momentarily flustered at Mac's taking charge.

"Bloody trams," Bert muttered under his breath. "If Miss Fisher's taking trams instead of my bloody cab…"

"Dot, stay and man the telephone, won't you?" Mac asked, giving Dot's hand and encouraging squeeze. "And shut that bedroom window. We don't want the house cold when she gets back."

Dorothy looked relieved at having received orders. "Yes, Doctor."

* * *

The midmorning sun had fought its way through the clouds, and the wet streets were dazzlingly bright.

"Miss Harper's, then?" Jack asked. He gestured to his car, as if to ask Mac if she really intended on coming with him.

Mac pushed her hat down over her hair. "As good a place as any to start, I suppose. But drive along the parade, won't you? We didn't go far before."

They drove in silence, each of them watching the footpaths and the beach for any signs of Phryne.

Mac kept thinking about Dot's telephone call to her earlier that morning. "She's got such a temperature," she had said. "I don't think she's slept much, and there's a cough starting to sit on her chest and it sounds quite nasty, if you ask me."

"I'm going to bloody kill her," Mac said.

Jack glanced at her.

"What does she think she's doing, running around Melbourne with a high fever?"

"I've learned there's not much good in asking Miss Fisher what she thinks she's doing," Jack murmured.

Mac tutted and squinted her eyes against the sun shining on the rain-slicked streets. "I'll bloody kill her," she said again.

* * *

Mildred Harper's house was an elegant brick home with a neat cottage garden. The rain overnight and the morning sunshine had given everything a look of great refreshment, and bees murmured over the lavender and sylvia bushes.

"Oh, yes, I saw Phryne earlier," Miss Harper said pleasantly. Despite her cordial invitation in, Mac and Jack lingered on her doorstep. "You just missed her."

"She was here?" Mac asked. "Was she well? I was called out this morning to respond to a fever."

Miss Harper's smile slipped for a moment. "Well, she did have a bit of a cough," she said. "I can't swear to the fever." She smiled again. "You know Phryne," she said, "always alight with some kind of excitement."

Jack cleared his throat softly. "Yes," he agreed. "Might we enquire as to where she went next?"

"Well, it's about my frock," Miss Harper said, having the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "It's missing."

"Missing?" Mac asked, doing her best not to sound to scornful, but not succeeding very well. "You called Miss Fisher in to find a missing dress?"

"Not just any dress!" Miss Harper said defensively. "It was to make its debut at the opening of the Topaz Room this Saturday evening — the neckline is embroidered with twelve golden South Sea pearls. I had it made by Madame Mercier. It's worth a fortune." She tipped her nose up a little, so that she could look down it, which caused Mac to take a sudden and vehement dislike to her.

"Who knew about this dress?" Jack asked. "Aside from Madame Mercier?"

"Well, plenty of people," Miss Harper said, exasperated. "I've been so excited about the party it's all I've been able to talk about for weeks. I was at Phryne's just the other day and we discussed it at length."

Mac exhaled a soft breath, and Jack pinched the bridge of his nose.

"All right," he said heavily. "Who was the first person on Miss Fisher's suspect list?"

"Oh, I don't know about that," Miss Harper said, "but she said she'd visit Madame Mercier first."

"Thank you," Jack said. "You've been most helpful."

Miss Harper smiled sweetly at him, and Jack led Mac back towards the car, irises leaning large wet heads across the garden path, brushing their clothes.

"That was a tidy little lie," Mac praised him.

"Well, she did give us one clue," Jack said. "Shall we go and find Madame Mercier?"

* * *

Madame Mercier swore impressively in French. "I knew she was not well! She would not listen to my suggestions to go home to bed, to leave the case for another day! Stubborn woman."

"Yes," Jack agreed pleasantly. "You don't happen to know where she is now?"

Madame Mercier pressed her red-painted lips into a thin line. "The suspect list for this missing dress is long," she said regretfully. "Mildred Harper is not known for her discretion. I told Phryne I was comfortable in my belief that none of my girls are involved. I worked personally on the dress."

"How much is a South Sea pearl worth?" Mac asked curiously.

Madame Mercier's mouth curved upwards, ever so slightly. "For most people, twelve of those pearls would be more than several year's wages. For Miss Harper, not a problem."

Mac was shocked. "For _pearls_?"

"They are gold in colour," Madame Mercier said, as though that explained everything. "Very naturally beautiful and unusual."

"Forgive me," Jack said, "but I didn't get the impression Miss Harper had that particular kind of wealth."

Mac agreed.

"Her father," Madame Mercier said with a slight shrug. "He is in the shipping cargo business, I believe, and he lives in the islands. The pearls were a gift from him. There were not enough to make a string-of-pearl necklace, and so Miss Harper came to me. I believe she tried Madame Fleuri first, but she has since rather gone off pearls."

"Understandable," Jack said.

Mac shifted her weight impatiently. "So Phryne didn't mention where she was headed next?"

"Well, not exactly," Madame Mercier said. "But she seemed very excited as she left — I had the impression something I said to her which she took to be significant. I had been talking about Miss Harper's… ah… gentleman friend. George."

"Do you know where we can find him?" Mac asked, impatient with the chase already.

"I cannot say for sure that is the direction she went — but I believe he works at Flinders Street."

"The station?" Jack clarified.

" _Oui._ "

* * *

They continued to scan the streets as they drove back towards the city, though it had become clear to both of them that Miss Fisher was utilising either the trams or a cab to get around.

"Bert won't be happy," Mac murmured, drawing her thoughts to the surface.

"We should telephone the house when we get to the station," Jack said. "Perhaps Bert and Cec found her. Perhaps she's home already. "

"And perhaps pigs can fly," Mac answered, giving him a wry smile.

He kept his eyes on the road, but she saw his smile in response. It warmed her heart suddenly, to have Jack here beside her, just as worried for Phryne as she was, casting aside his entire day to track her down and ensure she was all right.

"I'm sorry for throwing any plans you may have had into disarray," she said suddenly, looking out the window. "I probably didn't need to call you."

"Well," he said lightly, "I've come to accept a certain amount of disarray since being introduced to a certain lady detective." He brought the car to a sudden stop at an intersection. He kept his long fingers curled tightly around the steering wheel. 

"I love her," Mac said, "but I'm absolutely furious with her."

"You're worried."

"Aren't you?" she asked, defensive. 

"Of course," he admitted. "But you will remember I've argued with Phryne before for putting herself in danger, and it's never done me much good."

"Impossible woman," Mac muttered, once again feeling a certain tenderness towards Jack as she realised how deep his loyalty and affection towards Phryne ran even when she was constantly testing his measure.

"I'm not disagreeing with you," he said, and they both bounced a little as he drove the car over a set of tram tracks. "I honestly don't know what it will take for her to learn her lesson about being a danger to herself."

Mac shook her head. "The thing is," she said, "if you or I were doing this, she'd be spitting fire at us for not taking care of ourselves."

"We can discuss the poetic parallels of all of this with her when we find her," Jack said, spinning a turn into Flinders Street and immediately slamming on the brakes as they met a bank of traffic. "Keep your eyes peeled for a place to leave the car," he said, eyeing the tightly-packed line of cars and carts between the street and the footpath.

"I don't like your chances," Mac said as they crawled along. She peered down into Elizabeth Street, but it too was crammed full of traffic — it seemed there was no order to any of it; empty spaces shrank and disappeared the moment Mac thought she had spotted them.

"I'll try Swanston Street," Jack said. He grimaced through the windscreen at the bustling intersection, people and trams and motorcars and horses all keeping to a chaotic rhythm which never seemed to cease.

"Just let me out here," Mac said impatiently, but they were moving again, heading up Swanston Street and scanning for a place to leave the car.

"There!" Mac cried, and Jack let out a soft blaspheme as he swerved too exuberantly and almost clipped a cart unloading barrels in front of Young & Jackson. He parked hastily and they both leapt from the car, into the fray of street traffic.

They backtracked along Swanston Street and waited impatiently to cross, the main entrance to Flinders Street Station standing grand and impressive in front of them.

The crowds had set Mac on edge again. "What if she's not here?" Mac asked. "Or what if we've missed her? We'll never find her in all this…" She gestured impatiently.

"Nonsense," Jack said calmly. "Miss Fisher has never once blended into a crowd."

Mac snorted and took his arm as they crossed the street. "I'll give you that one."

They strode up the steps beneath the clocks, arm-in-arm, and stood for a moment in the shadowed hall. The rumbling of engines travelled through the tiles beneath their shoes, and steam hung in the air, drifting on the spring breeze from the platforms.

"If she's on a train," Mac said, "I'll kill her."

"I wonder why we're going to all this trouble at all," Jack said drily. "That's four or five death threats you've made against her since nine o'clock."

Mac pursed her lips. "Where do we go to find George?"

Jack flashed his identification at one of the ticket booths, and they were pointed upstairs with the baffled question, "What's Georgie done?" following them.

An over-enthusiastic pianist was belting out a number to which a dozen young women were breathlessly keeping pace, their soft-soled shoes noiseless on the wooden boards of the ballroom, their faces aglow with exertion.

Jack showed his card again, this time to the pianist, who didn't miss a note.

"Eh?" he shouted over the noise. "Looking for someone?"

"George Archer," Jack shouted back over the noise.

The pianist shrugged his shoulder towards a set of doors in the wall. "Check the offices."

Jack and Mac skirted their way around the dancers, who showed as much interest in them as the pianist had, barely even glancing in their direction as they spun and leapt across the room.

They found themselves in a narrow corridor running the length of the ballroom, the opposite wall lined with doors, each of which opened into a small room.

Mac felt her exasperation rising. _Check the offices._ At that moment it felt there was a thousand doors in front of her, all closed and quiet. She raised her voice. "Phryne!"

The shriek of a steam whistle sounded, quite close. Steam billowed and darkened the skylight above them. The floor rumbled as a train pulled out.

They strode along the corridor, leaving the piano behind, listening to the train slowly pulling out, trying doors at random as they came to them. Most of them were locked, but many stood empty, or crammed full of old furniture or boxes of books and papers. Some of them had windows looking out across the platforms and onto the Yarra, which gleamed in the sun like a fat brown snake.

"There's nobody here," Jack said. "The place is deserted."

"Phryne!" Mac shouted again, the train having finally faded away.

A door opened and a short man in shirt sleeves peered out at them. "Can I help you?"

"We're looking for a Mr. George Archer," Jack said, showing his warrant card.

Though his face was ruddy and rather flushed, Mac fancied she could see him grow pale. "Police?" He began to frantically straighten his collar and tie.

"Are you George?" Jack asked.

He hesitated, but then answered reluctantly. "Yes." 

"All we want to know is if you've been visited by a Miss Phryne Fisher this morning," Mac said impatiently. It was clear Phryne wasn't in the office with him — they'd missed her again.

George tugged at his shirt cuffs. "Er, no, no I haven't…" he said.

Jack turned his hat in his hands, indicating an otherwise well-hidden attack of sudden stress. "We believe she's investigating a case for Miss Mildred Harper."

"Oh?" George glanced at Mac and then back to Jack again. "A case? Is she a police officer?" He gave a breathless little laugh, like he'd made a joke.

"A detective," Mac said, her tone biting. "Miss Harper has had a valuable dress stolen — we thought Miss Fisher may have come by to talk to you about it."

"Oh, Mildred and her dresses," George said dismissively. He dabbed the forearm of his sleeve across his sweaty brow. "Some frock of hers has gone missing. She wanted to wear it on Saturday night and she's kicked up a fuss over it. I hardly think it's a police matter."

"We're more interested in finding Miss Fisher," Jack admitted. "We thought she might be here."

George shuffled his weight and glanced back into his office. "No, I'm sorry. Look, it's just me up here today, and I'm awfully busy…"

"Of course," Jack conceded, though Mac at once wanted to argue. They _couldn't_ leave, not without a new clue, not without an indication of where Phryne was. She was boiling up with frustration and worry — if she wasn't here, where was she? How could she and Jack have gone wrong? Or had they simply beaten her there? What if she hadn't made it because she'd collapsed somewhere because she was so unwell?

"I wonder," Jack said suddenly, "if I might use your telephone?" His tone was pleasant but, at the same time, allowed no invitation for argument, and Mac took a moment to marvel at it.

George looked taken aback. He glanced into his office again. "I — uh, yes all right. If you're quick." He looked Jack up and down and then led the way into his cramped office.

The desk took up much of the space, overflowing with papers. The filing cabinets looked stuffed full; none of the drawers closed properly and they lined the walls. George had to turn and shuffle sideways, squeezing between a filing cabinet and the desk to reach his chair, shoving the drawers in with his backside as he passed. He gestured hastily to the phone on the desk.

Mac stood in the open doorway, listening to the far-off sounds of the piano start up again, watching pigeons strut along the outside of the window, looking out across the platforms and the train lines to the river. She felt worried and defeated.

Jack lifted the receiver and Mac listened vaguely as he requested connection and then spoke with Dot. His voice was calm and measured as he explained they'd not been able to find Phryne.

"Bert and Cec didn't have any luck, I suppose?" he asked. "No, I see." His face looked drawn, suddenly, and Mac's worry surely beat and pulsed in time with his own.

Something in the corridor rattled. Pigeons fluttered and the clouds overtook the sun and cast Melbourne into shadow.

The rattle again, and a barking cough.

Mac's ears pricked up. She arched out of George's office and looked down the corridor. Another cough, faint through the walls, and the third door down rattled again, the handle twisting back and forth.

Mac's heart leapt with hope and fury. "Phryne!" she shouted. Jack started and spun on the spot, the receiver still held to his ear.

Mac grabbed the handle and twisted it, but the door was locked. She knocked excitedly. "Phryne, are you in there?"

"Mac?" Phryne asked.

Mac's thanks died in her throat and she leaned her brow against the door for a moment, wordless with gratitude. Jack was suddenly beside her. "Elizabeth?"

"She's in there," Mac said, gesturing. She turned back towards George's office only to see him skirting around the door and legging it down the corridor with a terrified look upon his face.

She grasped Jack's sleeve before he could take chase. "Let him go, let him go, it's only a bloody dress."

"Worth thousands of pounds," Jack muttered, but he didn't put up any fight to run after him. He tried the handle. "Phryne?"

"If you'd both just give me a moment," Phryne's voice said, "I have my lock pick here."

"Get away from the door, Phryne," Jack said, using the same polite, no-nonsense tone he had applied to George when he'd requested use of the telephone.

She barked a cough in response. Jack raised his foot and, with a hard kick square against the latch, the door flew open.

Phryne was leaning against the wall, her clothes dust-smeared and her face pale as chalk.

"Thank goodness," Mac said, and then, jabbing a finger at her, "You're in big trouble."

"Oh, trouble is what you make it," Phryne quipped. "Besides, it's not a lost cause, I've solved the case! George Archer has the dress stuffed in one of his filing cabinets." Unfortunately, she was rather breathless and appeared to be relying on the wall to hold her up, and therefore her triumphant tone didn't quite carry the weight she might have wished it to.

"Are you hurt?" Jack asked, looking touchingly concerned.

"Not at all," Phryne said, though she was still trembling from the exertion of what Mac assumed to be a furious fight. "He gained a minuscule physical advantage and managed to lock me in here, that's all." She rubbed at a spot on the back of her head.

"I see," Jack said.

Mac tipped her chin up and looked into Phryne's eyes, looking for signs of concussion. She still looked dazed, but she batted Mac away with a show of lighthearted independence. "I'm fine," she insisted. She turned to Jack, a sway in her movements. "Is Hugh here? We should plant somebody — I don't know who his contact is, but George is going to fence the dress this evening."

"I think that's unlikely now," Jack answered.

Phryne cleared her throat, but her voice continued in the same husky note. "Well, perhaps if you hadn't let him escape, we could have lain in wait and caught his accomplice red-handed."

"Well, we can't win them all," Jack said, not sounding particularly regretful, and his fingers gently searched through Phryne's hair, seeking the lump he and Mac both knew was there. Phryne winced when he found it. "I think perhaps we should get you home," he said.

"Yes, home," Mac said, touching Phryne's brow, which almost sizzled under her palm. "And you're going straight to bed, and you're not going to argue one _jot_."

Phryne opened her mouth, and Jack interrupted.

"If you argue," he said, "I will arrest you on the spot for disruption of the peace."

* * *

"Oh, Jack," Phryne groaned, her eyes closed, "don't spin so."

Jack glanced at Mac with an exasperated expression, and hefted Phryne closer to him. If he was self-conscious about standing in the busiest intersection in Melbourne with a feverish woman cradled in his arms, he didn't show it.

"Get her to the car," Mac said, waving him on as they crossed Flinders Street, the priceless dress liberated from the filing cabinet and now balled up under Mac's arm. "I'll be one moment."

Jack looked surprised as she slipped into Young & Jackson, but he didn't wait to argue. Mac headed for the bar and rapped her knuckles smartly upon its surface to draw immediate attention to herself. "A woman's just fainted on the steps of the station," she said. "I need a wet compress."

Jack was settling Phryne gently on the back seat when Mac caught up to him. "I'll drive," she said. "Hold this on her brow, will you?"

"Shouldn't you be the one doing the doctoring?" Jack asked, but he slid in beside Phryne and propped her against his shoulder by putting his arm around her. He touched the compress to her brow and her lashes fluttered before she gave him a sleepy, grateful smile.

"Oh, wait!" she cried, bolting upright suddenly. She rasped a heavy breath. "The dress! George Archer! He — "

"I have the blasted dress," Mac said, tossing it carelessly into the back seat and starting the car with furious impatience. She hesitated for a moment and caught Jack's eye over her shoulder. "What's the penalty for reckless driving these days?" 

"I'll overlook it," Jack said, and he braced his foot against the front seat and held onto Phryne for dear life as Mac squealed the car out across Swanston Street, arcing a wide turn around a tram so she was facing southward again and earning herself an indignant volley of bells and two fingers from the Number 3 conductor.

* * *

"It was time-sensitive," Phryne argued.

"It was a missing party dress!" Mac drew the bedclothes up over Phryne's legs. "Absolutely ridiculous," she muttered for good measure.

Phryne flopped back onto her pillows, her skin still frightfully waxen. "Don't be cross, Mac," she said. "I solved the case _and_ I'm home in time for tea..."

Mac silenced her with a look.

Phryne sank a little further into the bed. "I do feel rotten, though," she admitted, as though confessing so would put Mac in a better mood.

"Well, whose fault is that?" she asked tartly.

Phryne managed to look contrite. "I'll behave, I promise. Though I really should call Mildred and tell her —"

"Dot will telephone her for you. There is no conceivable reason for you to leave this bed." Mac raised an eyebrow. "Try it, and I'll get the Inspector to lock you to the headboard with his handcuffs."

Phryne raised her eyebrow in return. "Promises, promises."

Mac turned away so she could hide her smile. "Take your medicine."

Phryne swallowed the beaker of syrup without complaint. "Will you stay a little longer, and keep me company?" she asked.

"I'm still cross with you," Mac said. She snapped her medicine bag shut rather abruptly.

"But you've already forgiven me," Phryne said drowsily. "Haven't you, Mac? Please don't be cross. All's well that ends well, and I solved the case and I'm back in bed now…"

As though the request had been a magic spell, Mac felt the last of her tension fade away. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. "Very well," she said. "I'll stay until you're asleep."

"And," Phryne said, rousing herself, "will you ask Jack back in? To read aloud?" She softened her blue eyes pitifully.

"You're absolutely incorrigible," Mac said, kissing her forehead. She called down the stairs to the Inspector, and he entered the room with a stern look still on his face.

"Will you read for me?" Phryne asked, gesturing towards a book on her nightstand.

Jack raised his eyebrows at Mac.

"She's promised to be good."

"I seem to remember you making that promise yesterday," Jack said, but he picked the book up and softly turned its pages.

"That was _yesterday_ ," Phryne said. "And I was positively angelic all the way up until nine o'clock this morning, a full nine hours past the deadline, thank you very much."

"I see." Jack shot her another stern look.

"I've learned my lesson," Phryne said, rather meekly.

"No you _haven't_ ," he sighed, sinking onto the edge of her bed. The book fell open in his palm.

"Up here," she ordered, patting her pillows.

He toed his shoes off without argument, and swung his long legs up onto the bed, settling against the numerous pillows of silk and linen and feathery indulgences Phryne had stacked all around herself.

"And…" Phryne looked at Mac and patted the mattress on her other side.

Mac sighed — almost as deeply as Jack had — and sat herself down. "Only for half an hour," she said sternly. "You need your rest."

"Yes, yes," Phryne said, snuggling deeper into her nest and flinging her arm across Mac's waist with a contented sigh of her own. "Read on, Jack."

Jack glanced at Mac.

She leaned her cheek against the top of Phryne's head and allowed herself to breathe freely for the first time since finding the bed empty that morning."Read on, Jack," she echoed, closing her eyes.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a line broken out of the a poem called _How Did You Die?_ by Edmund Vance Cooke.


End file.
